


to know wisdom

by rumpledlinen



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-15 12:39:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/849674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rumpledlinen/pseuds/rumpledlinen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Would you kill me?” Hannibal asks, mild. "Could you?"</p><p>She lifts her chin even though he can’t see her, laces her fingers together on the table. “If I had to.”</p><p>He turns to look at her, almost surprise in his face. “Are you sure about that?”</p><p>She nods, quick; she is, she <i>could</i>, she can see it now –</p><p>He smiles; it looks almost feral. “Good.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is the first part to what will eventually be a will/hannibal/abigail fic; takes place just after _releves_. 
> 
> warnings for bloodplay, choking, sexual acts that, while consensual, are not entirely safe or discussed properly, murder, cannibalism (forced and willing), manipulative characters, (eventually) an even further downward spiral of will graham, self harm, and a host of other things.
> 
> disclaimer: i don't own these characters, invented by thomas harris and adapted for the screen by bryan fuller. i'm just playing in their sandbox.

_And I gave my heart to know wisdom, and to know madness and folly: I perceived that this also is vexation of spirit._  
\- Ecclesiastes 1:17

"I'm so sorry, Abigail," Hannibal says; there's almost a note of true sorrow in his voice. "I'm sorry I couldn't protect you in this life." (It doesn't sound like he's speaking to her; it sounds like he's speaking to a ghost, a girl already dead.)

Abigail whimpers, a slight sound, and hates herself for making it. Her mind is running a mile a minute and frozen, all at once. "Please," she whispers; an almost unconscious sound, "don't do this." She closes her eyes tight and hates that she's begging but - his hand tightens on her neck, once, and she freezes absolutely still. _This is it_.

"I don't have to kill you," Hannibal murmurs.

Her eyes open, slowly. She blinks at him, oncetwicethree times. "What?" Her voice shakes.

"I could - protect you." Hannibal moves his hand, pushes her hair away from her face. His hand cups her cheek, stroking lightly just above her jaw. "You could live with me. I could take care of you. Would you like that, Abigail?"

"Why would you protect me? I know your secret." She's trying to be brave, injecting as much bravado as she can into her voice. (The look Hannibal gives her, softly chiding, tells her she's not succeeding.)

"You wouldn't tell anyone." It's almost a sing-song, this. "Would you?"

She understands, just like that, and she closes her eyes. "Of course not," she breathes out, hating how the words taste in her mouth (but she's faced death before; she's been to hell and she's made it out and she’s not afraid of _Hannibal Lecter_ ).

"Good girl." 

She doesn't bother trying to stop the shiver that twists up her spine at that, those words. She clears her throat, taking the tiniest step backwards.

"I wouldn't run if I were you, Abigail."

"I'm not running." This comes out clearer, sharper. _I'm not going to die._

He smiles, predatory, and she lifts her chin a bit.

He traces over her face again, fingertips stopping at her lower lip. She parts her mouth, sucking in a quiet noise (her tongue barely touches his fingertip), and his eyes snap to hers, searching.

"I will protect you," as his fingers fall from her face; there's something in his voice, something that makes her shiver again, her eyelids flutter shut for a moment.

"You sure you can?" she asks with her eyes closed, the barest smirk on her face, and then she stares at him, unblinking, until he moves.

It's barely a movement; his fingertips go to her wrist and he squeezes; he nods, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "Yes."

*

She lives in his house; careful, careful not to leave anything of hers around. She spends her days in his library, reading his medical textbooks (she wanted to be a doctor when she was a little girl, hasn't ever quite shaken the urge; holding life and death simultaneously in her hands has always intrigued her) and she sketches, little silly things that get thrown directly into his fireplace. She leaves no trace of her, anywhere. (She acts a ghost.)

She cuts her hair short one day, short like a boy's, and runs her hand through it. The scar on her neck is clearer now; she can't hide it, and she tilts her head, staring at it. Once, it filled her with revulsion; she was ashamed of it.

She likes it, now. She likes the way it looks, dark against her pale neck. She likes what it means - she's living, she's fought the Devil and been to hell and she's still here.

Her father would never have let her cut it like this, she thinks with a grim satisfaction; she expects Hannibal to comment on it but he just raises an eyebrow and offers her the dish, wordless. It feels like a victory and a loss.

*

(Hannibal thinks he's won, thinks he's broken her; she eats what he feeds her without comment, fully aware of what it is he’s giving her. She stares at him as she takes defiant bites. He thinks he's won; she can see it in the way he smiles when he puts her to bed, kisses her forehead, whispers _Good night_ with the weight of years they never knew one another on his tongue.

She’s known for a while and that, that he doesn’t know; he didn’t see her face fall for just a moment because she’s good at this, can match him.

She sleeps with a pocketknife under her pillow and clutches it until she falls asleep; she dreams of stabbing him, slitting his throat while his eyes widen and she can whisper _I win_ as he dies.

She wants a fighting chance; almost wants to see the look in his eyes when she stabs him, just like she did Nick, wants to know if he'll be surprised or pleased (will she be playing into his hands? she thinks so but she feels no guilt about it; she's doing what she has to do).

Her fingers close around the knife handle and she feels calmer, softer, and she can sleep soundly that way. She thinks Hannibal knows about it, but he never mentions it, only eyes her with an almost fearful look.)

*

She thinks she knows what Hannibal's doing; he's going to make it look as though she's dead, blame it on Will. The thought makes her feel sick ( _will I ever be alive again?_ ) and she retches into the toilet when she thinks too hard about it one day, fingers trembling against the porcelain.

Hannibal comes by and knocks, two quick taps. "Are you okay, Abigail?"

 _I thought I was alone_ runs through her head but she dismisses it. She opens the door, shaking, and she's sure she looks a mess; her newly shorn hair in a tangle around her head.

“You can talk to me,” Hannibal says, reaching out to smooth her hair. His voice is calm, gentle. “I won’t hurt you. I promise.”

She’s never known him to break a promise (but then, she’s never known him to make any). She nods and breathes out and says “I didn’t want Will to be blamed for this,” before she can think too hard about it ( _half-truths_ , she tells herself, _don’t lie but don’t be honest_ ).

“Oh, Abigail,” Hannibal whispers, the sound feather-light on his tongue. He walks forward and hugs her tight. Her head rests against his chest; she can hear his heart beating, steady. It calms her, and her shoulders stop shaking after a while. It reminds her of before; of her _naivete_ , the way she’d trusted him blindly.

Hannibal keeps his arms around her; he holds her until she steps away, wiping at her eyes, shaking her head. “I didn’t want anyone else to hurt because of me.”

“I know,” Hannibal says, voice even and measured. “I hope you know that I truly want the best for you.”

She breathes a shuddering breath and nods, wiping away the last of her tears. “I know.”

“You, Abigail. Not Will Graham - I care for him but I care for you more.” 

She watches his face and he seems honest, open; she believes him.

Hannibal studies her for a long moment, and then nods. “I’m going to ask you a question,” he says, slowly, enunciating each syllable, “and I want you to answer me honestly – I will not hurt you.”

Again, she believes him; she nods, pressing her lips together. She thinks she knows what’s coming, and her heart starts to beat faster.

“How did it feel, killing Nick Boyle?”

She lets out a soft breath, closing her eyes. The question feels like a punch in the gut; she knows what he’s doing here, what he’s trying to get her to admit.

The seconds pass and Hannibal clicks his tongue once. “Honesty, please, Abigail.”

“I liked it,” she whispers, a broken sound. “I felt... powerful.” 

“Would you kill again?”

“If I had to.”

“What if you simply... _wanted_ to?”

She barely misses a beat. “What if I wanted to kill you?” she asks, trying to bring herself back to where she was; to remind him of the girl she can be. 

He smiles. “It would not be in your nature.”

“You don’t know that,” she whispers, shaking her head, “you don’t know me as well as you think you do.”

He raises an eyebrow at her. “You would kill me?”

 _Yes_ she bites back in her head but she can’t say that. “I –” She cuts herself off, shaking her head, and looks down demurely, barely missing the look of understanding on his face. “I mean, obviously, I couldn’t.”

“Hmm.” When she looks up, Hannibal’s eyes are studying her face. “An interesting method of gaining my trust, Abigail.”

She frowns, but her heart again begins to race. “What?” she asks as innocently as she can.

Hannibal doesn’t continue on the thought, instead turning around and walking down the hallway. Abigail follows him, the taste of sick still in her mouth.

He sits them down at the kitchen table, putting a pot of water on the stove and setting it to boil. “Chamomile?”

She doesn’t say anything; he knows what she likes. 

He turns to give her a soft smile, but she can see the malice behind it, the true – she can’t bring herself to say the word _evil_ , but.

He looks as though he’s read her thoughts in her features, and he turns back to the stove, getting out something Abigail can’t see. “Would you kill me?” he asks again, mild.

She lifts her chin even though he can’t see her, laces her fingers together on the table. “If I had to.”

He turns to look at her, almost surprise in his face. “Are you sure about that?”

She nods, quick; she is, she could, she can see it now –

He smiles, feral. “Good.”

Her eyes widen and she has only a moment to think _no_ before he’s walking back to the table, two mugs in hand. She smells the tea and something else, but doesn’t ask; sometimes it’s better not to know. Her heart calms.

“I care for you, Abigail,” Hannibal says, reaching out to grab her left hand, stroking his thumb over her knuckles; her heart picks up again but differently, now. “I want you to know that when I –”

“I know,” she says, and turns her hand over, slipping their fingers together. “I understand.”

She does; that’s the thing, she gets what Hannibal intended for her, for them. (She’ll never go along with it; she’ll die before becoming like him and she may die here but she’ll give all she has.) She swallows and leans forward a miniscule amount, searching his eyes for – something.

He seems to understand and in a moment he’s standing, still holding her hand, and has her back pressed against the table; he stands between her legs. He kisses her hard, and she wraps her leg around his hip, bringing him closer to her.

“Abigail,” he gasps out against her neck, and bites hard, just above her scar.

She lets out a moan, pressing her hips up _hard_ against his, and her head thunks against the table. Her cup tips over and smashes on the floor.

That brings Abigail out of her haze for a moment, but Hannibal is looking at her and his eyes are so dark and –

Abigail pushes against him and, when she has leverage, pushes off of the table and drags him by his tie to the couch. She licks her lips and kisses him, whispers “What do you want to do to me?” in his ear.

His hands grip her hips hard, hard enough that she’s half sure there will be bruises tomorrow, and pushes her down on the couch, spreading her legs so he can get between them.

He smirks, dark, and kisses her again before moving back to her neck, kissing over the scar almost tenderly. It feels good, and Abigail doesn’t notice until he’s done that her panties are gone, and his fingers are tracing over her.

“Ah – ah,” she gasps, biting down on her lower lip, and catches his eye. 

He growls somewhere in his throat and kisses her again, sliding a finger into her just as he bites her lip, hard enough that it draws blood. His fingers push inside her as his thumb rubs her clit, excruciatingly slowly.

When he pulls away, Abigail’s shaking but – he has blood on his lips, _her_ blood, and she groans, pulling him back to her and kissing him almost feverishly.

“What do you want?” Hannibal whispers into her ear, pulling his fingers out of her and holding her wrists against the top of the couch. He settles between her legs, and she can feel his hard cock against her. 

She groans, doesn’t answer, and tilts her head back.

“Abigail,” and he almost sounds reproachful, would if she didn’t push her hips up and hear his shocked little sound at the end of it. “What would you like me to do to you?”

She licks her lips. “Fuck me,” she whispers. 

His eyes go dark and then he’s adjusting her position on the couch, sliding over her. He looks almost reverent as he unbuttons her shirt, slides it off her shoulders. “Abigail,” he murmurs. (She likes the way her name sounds in his mouth.)

He’s going much too slowly for her, careful as he moves down her body. She rips Hannibal’s shirt open, buttons flying, and pushes it off of him. 

He stares at her, mouth open the tiniest bit.

“That wasn’t very nice,” he murmurs.

“I’m not very nice,” she tells him, biting her lip again; she can still taste her blood. She moans, soft, when he growls again.

He pushes her skirt up, enough that he can see her pussy, and slides down her body, waiting until he’s right above her before staring at her for a long moment.

“Please,” she whimpers, tilting her head back. “Please.”

He smirks and licks, one long, slow line, and her hips buck.

He presses against her hipbone, holding her down, and she feels herself getting wetter; she wants him to hold her down and make her take it – 

He seems to pick up on this, holding her wrists tighter before licking at her again. She gasps and pushes against his hands but he doesn’t relent, and – “oh, god,” she whispers, moments before she comes, hard, shaking with it.

When she opens her eyes Hannibal’s stepping out of his suit pants, looking at her and he looks – Abigail pardons herself for the term – _hungry_.

“Fuck me,” she tells him again, voice low, and bites her lip. 

He surges forward, pushing her down against the couch. She can feel the rough material against her, her skirt bunched up around her waist, but she doesn’t care; she just wants him, in her, fucking her hard. 

He slides into her in one push and her eyes widen, before she breathes out a low gasp. “Oh,” she moans, and wraps her leg around his hip again, pushing him into her. Her back arches off the couch and she kisses him, hard, pushing up, “ _oh_ , keep going.”

He fucks her hard, hands grasping her hips in the same imprints he made earlier. 

When she comes, it’s with a shout and she keeps shaking as he _keeps going_ , for what seems like hours.

He never stops touching her, though – one hand always remains on her hip and his fingers dance down her body, teasing her, making her moan and gasp. 

She feels herself about to come again and she looks at him, legs shaking, tilting her head back. “I need,” she starts, and stops because she doesn’t know what she needs; more, just _more_.

The hand on her hip moves, and she watches him take a carefully measured breath before he presses it against her neck, squeezing light.

She comes, hard, and not long after so does he, coming all over her chest, her bra she never managed to get off.

She lies there for a long moment, eyes shut. Around her, Hannibal’s moving, doing something, but she doesn’t open her eyes; she wants to lie here and think.

There’s a cool pressure on her chest and her eyes dart open. “What –”

“Cleaning you off,” says Hannibal in a carefully measured tone. “I apologize, I should have had better control.”

She shakes her head, twisting her fingers together. “You – it was – you don’t need to apologize.”

He smirks and finishes cleaning her off, before sitting back, resting his hands against his legs. “Do we need to discuss this?”

“Do _you_?”

His smirk widens, the barest amount, and he shakes his head. “No, I suppose not.” He looks at the clock. “I have an early appointment, so –”

“Right.” Abigail stands, licking her lips; she can still feel the cut, still almost taste the rust. She looks at him and leans up to kiss him, quick. “Good night.”

She can feel him watching her as she heads up to her room and she pauses just before she opens the door, looking at him out of the corner of her eye. 

He’s just staring at her, face impassive. 

*

She wakes up and Hannibal’s sitting at the edge of her bed.

They stare at each other for a long moment, and then – “Why do you sleep with a knife under your pillow?”; it’s a real question.

“I’ve been doing it since I was young,” she lies, and keeps her eyes trained on him. This is her first test of herself. “Since I found out what my father – what he did.”

He doesn’t say anything for another moment, and then he scoots closer to her, resting his hand on her knee. “You never did before you moved in here.”

She raises her eyebrow at him. “They don’t let you have knives at hospitals,” she whispers, as though it’s a secret. She smiles almost ruefully and shakes her head, inexplicable tears coming to her eyes. She wipes at them. “It just – it makes me feel safer.”

He nods. “I can understand that.”

She blinks at him. “You have an early appointment.” It’s late morning by now; she can tell by the warmth in the room, the curtains open wide. 

“I cancelled it.”

“Why?”

“You seemed – hurt, last night.”

She shakes her head, smiling, too wide (she can feel it). Hannibal frowns at her, the barest movement – but she sees it, she notices.

She swallows. “I’m afraid you’re going to use me until you’re done and then kill me no matter what I do,” she says, slow.

He raises an eyebrow at her, just a bare fraction. “You are useful,” he tells her, sitting back on her sheets. It looks almost strange, him in his polished suit on her fuzzy sheets.

This is no solace to her, and she keeps looking at him, dead-on.

“I wouldn’t kill you if you didn’t deserve it.”

“You nearly did before.”

“No, I didn’t.” He looks at her. “It surprised me, that you would have figured it out so soon; I imagined it happening later. I knew, though, how you would respond.”

She licks her lips and can feel him watching her do it. She runs her hands through her hair (short to her scalp) and looks out the window, pulling her knees up to her chest. “Okay,” she says.

He looks at her out of the corner of his eye and then full-on. He stands, hands crossed in front of him. “I would like to take you away from here.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Thought I was supposed to be dead.”

His smile is terrifying and beautiful.

*

He takes her to a cabin; it’s like her father’s and nothing like it at the same time. She has her few possessions in bags in her hand. Her knife, folded, is in her jacket sleeve. He looks at her closed fist when he takes her things from her and sets them down on the porch.

“I will be back in two days,” he tells her. It’s significant, the way he says it. 

(She could run. She knows she could; she knows how to hide. He’d never be able to find her.

She won’t, though; she’s safer like this, safer following his orders.)

She nods, stiff, and stares at her purse. 

His touch on her shoulder, feather-light, shocks her into a shiver. He’s smiling at her, and it doesn’t seem forced for once.

He kisses her, light, questioning. Her hand reaches up to rest on the side of his cheek, just at his jaw. 

He pulls away when she gasps, and rests his forehead against hers. “I have to go,” he whispers.

Abigail grins, too-wide. “But who will show me around?” she asks, stepping back and opening her knife. “You wouldn’t want me to hurt myself,” and she cuts her wrist, a small cut. Blood drips down her fingertips, to the ground.

Hannibal stares at it for a long moment, and drags his eyes to hers before pushing her inside and shutting the door behind them.

(He fucks her up against the door, holding her wrist tight and licking up her blood, and she comes when he bites her neck hard, opening the wound again.

After he sets her down she stumbles, and he stares at her for a long moment.

“Two days,” he says, and she swallows.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have had half of this written for ages and i don't know why it took me so long to finish but, uh, here it is. another chapter next week? let's hope for that, kids. \o/

He leaves her with just a newspaper.

She doesn’t find it until that evening; it’s sitting against her pillow with a lock of what looks like her hair, wrapped in a blood-red ribbon, pooling at the bottom. She swallows and picks up the hair; it’s definitely hers (she remembers holding it just like this before she chopped it off, made one of her first fucking decisions on her own -).

Her eyes are shut and her hand grips so tight that her nails dig little crescents into her palm, the strands wrapping around her fingers.

She takes a deep breath; calms herself, throws the hair into the trash can and ties it shut. Then and only then, she picks up the newspaper, leafing through it, renewed calm in herself.

WILL GRAHAM CAUGHT! the headline screams; she swallows past the lump in her throat and makes herself read the article (all calm gone now; her heart is racing). At the bottom is a picture of her, _known victim of Graham_ , and she clenches her teeth and feels sick.

It doesn’t say anything much, and she tosses it to the side, running a hand over her hair. The house is silent around her. Hannibal hasn’t spared any expense, despite this being in the middle of nowhere; the cabin is furnished much like his home. Even her bed is soft and lush. She lies back against the sheets and closes her eyes, imagining him picking out the fabric (hands sliding over the sheets; his eyes would be focused on this, because each decision is the most important one). Her hand slides down her chest, down to her cunt, and she sighs, soft, other hand wrapping itself in the sheet, fisting it.

(She needs this, needs to distract herself or she’ll scream until her lungs give out and run as fast as she can and he’ll catch her, she knows he will.)

Her toes curl against the bed and she can imagine him above her, around her; a strangled moan slips out of her throat and she lets go of the fabric to wrap her fingers around her neck, squeezing gently, like he would. (He wouldn’t want to kill her like this but he’d want to prove that he had control over her, could make her do what he wanted; she moans again, the sound barely escaping her as her fingers tighten.)

When she comes she can barely breathe, so caught up is she in the fantasy, and she lies there for a long moment, heart racing. She swallows, eventually, and fixes the bed, grabbing only a pillow and blanket downstairs to the couch.

She sleeps soundly and unplagued by nightmares; it’s only when she wakes up that she realizes she forgot her knife.

*

Hannibal comes to collect her when she’s eating breakfast.

She’s made herself eggs and toast (not meat; she can’t stomach the thought of cooking it for herself) and has classical music playing. He steps inside and tosses his coat to the side.

She smiles at him and stops the music. “Hello.”

“Hello.” He looks around, eyes pausing on the couch. “I see you slept down here.”

“It was lonely being upstairs by myself.” She shrugs and swallows the last of her food, standing to take the dishes to the sink. She looks behind her at him; he’s still standing in the entryway. “Down here seemed safer.”

“What is it that you feared, Abigail?”

“You don’t think I’m afraid now?” She turns around to face him properly, crossing her arms and leaning against the counter.

“Not unless it’s me you’re afraid of.” He smiles a bit, stepping further into the kitchen. “ _Are_ you afraid of me?”

“No.” It comes out sharp, she lifts her head up, uncrossing her arms and pushing off of the counter. “I’m not.”

He nods, staring down at his hands, flexing his fingers. She can see the smile at the edges of his mouth.

“Will Graham is in jail,” she says. “For my murder.”

“He is. How does that make you feel?” She can hear the almost mocking tone of it.

“Your psychiatry is showing,” she says, dry; it’s not a joke but it almost feels like one.

His smile widens, and he doesn’t answer; he walks toward her, step by step, until her back is pressed against the counter, her nails digging into the marble. “Is it?” he says, nonsensical; and then he’s kissing her, hard, hands pressed against her hips, squeezing her. 

She tilts her head back and he bites at her neck, licking over her scar; there’s a sharp pinch and he’s pulling away, lips stained with blood.

“Oh,” she whimpers. She kisses him back but can’t push against him - he’s got her held tight against the sink. (It’s uncomfortable, and the sort of thing she notices dimly, but she pushes out of her mind in exchange for _more, now, oh_.)

He kisses her, hard. She can taste the rust and sweat and she lets herself go, kissing him like she wants - wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him close, knee pressed up against his trousers.

He pulls away from her. She tries to follow but he stays just out of her reach. “What do you want?” he whispers; it’s almost lyrical, the way it slips out of his mouth.

She gasps and pushes her hips up, wordlessly begging - but it’s not enough.

He chuckles against her neck, licking up the blood pooling in her collarbone. “Tell me what you want, Abigail.”

“Fuck me,” she whispers.

“Be more specific.”

“I want you to - _oh_ \- I want you to mark me, bruise me, bite me - just - please,” and she whimpers on the last word, voice going high, begging.

“Here?” he whispers, trailing his hand up her side; it’s deceptively gentle. “Or should I take you upstairs? Outside?” he murmurs in her ear, and she stutters out a gasp. “Tell me what you want, Abigail.”

And, “Here,” she murmurs out, and she tilts her head back and her hips up and he stutters out a gasp into her neck. It feels like a victory, if a small one; it feels like he’s expecting something different out of her. (It’s heady; she wants to make him fall apart at her hands, wants to be the one in fucking control for once.)

This time when he fucks her she digs her nails into his chest, rips apart his shirt and bites at him because she knows without being told that he’ll let her. She bites with her legs wrapped around his hips and she comes with a shout and another bite that cuts through skin. She hopes it’ll scar.

He whispers in her ear, _good girl_ , and she breathes out a shaky breath and yeah, maybe she can do this.

*

“I want to bring more of my things back,” she tells him with her arms crossed.

He looks at her over a file, lips pursed. There’s a scalpel next to his elbow and she thinks that maybe, maybe she’d like to open him up and see what’s inside (see what exactly went wrong when he was born, what’s different; but maybe he’s just like all the rest inside and maybe it’s in his mind that he’s fucked up). “I don’t think I can do that, Abigail.”

She smirks, low and soft. “And I think you can.”

He folds his fingers together. “Oh?” he murmurs.

She looks down and nods, biting her lower lip. “You can do anything,” she whispers, a little bit of a tremble making its way into her voice. “You _can_ and I want my things.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” he tells her, and looks back at the file.

She walks back to her room and thinks only _yes_.

*

“The trial is scheduled for six months from now,” Hannibal tells her, leaning against the doorway to her room (it’s got a fancy lock on, now, and Abigail’s heard people walk by while she sits in utter silence and darkness, _what’s in there?_ , and he laughs and waves it off and they always believe him). 

She nods, biting her lip hard, leaving little indents. She catches him watching her and she looks to the side; she doesn’t want the guilt to swallow her whole, not again. (She remembers fingers grabbing at the toilet, almost enough to leave marks in the fucking pristine porcelain.) “Oh,” she says, feeling almost faint.

“I thought you would wish to know,” he tells her and nods, brisk, heading to leave.

An idea hits her, one that she’s entertained only in her dreams, and she calls out “What if I testified?”

He looks at her and doesn’t say anything.

“I could go and tell them what he did, how he hurt me--” Her thoughts flip over one another, too fast to catch, and she’s pushing out the words with shaking hands. “How he tried to kill me and I ran when I got scared and I’m _so sorry_ ,” she says with tears that aren’t entirely fake in her eyes, “I’m so sorry but I was scared for my life--”

“I don’t think so,” he says.

She sets her jaw and hates him as she’s never hated anyone before (not even her father because her father never made her feel insignificant; she was his entire world but maybe she’s barely a blip in Hannibal’s). “Why’s that?” she asks with a flat voice.

“I think you know,” and he leaves without another word, closing the door without a sound.

 _Fuck you_ , she thinks, more vicious than she’s ever been before, and she closes her eyes and lets the rage swell through her.


End file.
